An Exercise in Control
by potterology
Summary: She did it again and again until she was left dry heaving on the bathroom tile, shaking slightly and only barely conscious. - I've always wondered about Blair's bulimia. Rated for themes, not for the faint hearted.


_I've always be in awe at how the writers pretty much just ignored Blair's bulimia. It's a huge character point and a great opportunity to explore her past, as well as her relationship with her parents. I'm kind of sick of it always being about Chuck with her or about Serena's mother and the drama and shit. I want to see Leighton actually get a decent storyline, one that doesn't involve a boyfriend or parties or fucking gossip. I'm Team Blair. Hater gonna hate.  
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_I could live a little in a wider line; when the change is gone, when the urge is gone to lose control._

- Joy Division, _She's Lost Control_

_**An Exercise in Control**_

Blair Waldorf remembers her first time experiencing control - _real_ control - vividly, right down to the very last detail. She was fourteen and it was the summer before high school would start; Nate had just asked her to be his girlfriend and she had giddily accepted before being whisked off to Rome with her parents for the summer fashion show, where her mother was debuting her new line_, E & H. _The threesome were on their way back to the Italian villa (Blair was pretending to sleep) and a fight had started in the car over - what else - Blair and what would become of her when they got back to New York.

"I think you're judging a little prematurely, Ellie," Harold said softly, not wanting to raise his voice and wake his Blair-Bear. Eleanor scoffed and tossed her hands up as if it were the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard.

"And you are being too soft, Harry! Her scores were in the average percentile! _Average_. She's focusing far more on the Archibald boy than she is on her schoolwork and as for her best friend… I love Serena, I do, but can you honestly say you see Serena as anything more than a trophy wife? I refuse to let the same fate befall my daughter. She has a name fit for a queen, not some commoner. Honestly, people will start thinking she's from Brooklyn!" Eleanor exclaimed, horrified at the mere thought of her daughter being ordinary in any way. The rest of the journey was spent in a stony silence, both parents glaring daggers at each other; Harold was always on Blair's side, even if he thought she was wrong he continually gave her the benefit of the doubt. Her mother, however, was the complete opposite.

There would forever be something wrong: her hair, her dress, the knot in her shoes and whatever the flaw happened to be it had to be corrected in an instant. For fourteen years, her mother told her what to do, what to wear and what to say and it had reached the point that if Blair was ever required to be on her own with another without the presence of her mother, she would be almost at a loss as to what to say. She often opted to be on her own, particularly in Italy where she didn't speak the language or know anyone who was not a fashion editor, model or journalist. In the six weeks that she resided in Rome, Blair practically forgot what it was to be around real people who didn't care if it was a Gucci sandal or a Prada strappy.

It was their last night in Rome and her parents had left her on her own for the evening in order to schmooze guests at a nearby five star hotel. Blair was bored; the television held little interest for her, she had read every one of the books on the numerous shelves and she knew every line to every Audrey Hepburn movie that they owned (looking back, Blair would often wonder how they never spotted her father was gay before the big blowout). She scanned the large villa for something to do, feeling more than a little lost without her mother giving her a task or _something_ to do and eventually her eyes landed on the fridge.

She contemplated for a moment: was she hungry? _Not really_, her stomach replied, but something in the back of her mind was nagging her. Some strawberries. Blair rolled her eyes as she realised she was debating with herself over fucking strawberries. In a second she had crossed the lounge and was in the kitchen, tearing open the fridge door and grabbing at the little red fruits.

She stood there, letting the cool air of the refrigerator wash over her as she popped one of the strawberries - fresh and just a little bit sweet - into her mouth and savored it. Tossing the green leaf stem onto the nearby counter top, she took another one; then another and then another until the entire plastic container was empty with nothing but green leaves and seeds left at the bottom. She gazed guiltily down at her red, stained hands but after a moment she shrugged: it was their last night here, the food would probably be tossed once they left and it wasn't like her mother was there to tell her to watch what she ate. So, Blair tossed the container to the counter and hunted for more goodies to consume and it didn't take long for her to clean them out of anything immediately edible.

Ice cream, peaches, yogurt and chocolate spread spooned straight out the jar; key lime pie and cranberry juice along with an assortment of oranges, bananas, pears and can upon can of coca-cola. She ate it all and relished in the freedom of the moment; in those few hours of mindless consumption, she forgot all about her mother's warnings about junk food.

Blair ignored every word Eleanor had ever said to her about 'a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips' and just gorged on anything and everything she could rest her young hands on. Leftover Chinese food that Harold had brought home was lost in a sea of wrappers and empty cartons, along with bags of chips and even a box of pork rinds. The more Blair thought about her mother, the more she ate. Every bite was a point against Eleanor-fucking-Waldorf; every calorie was a middle finger to the Upper East Side and its 'slave to the wage' attitude.

Blair had just polished off a box of Twinkies when a thought broke her haze of delirious freedom: what would her mother say if she found out?

Panic set in; a substantial amount of food was missing and her parents would definitely find out about her binge come tomorrow morning when they sat down for breakfast. Her mother would know and the game would be a bogey. Her stomach was suddenly too stretched, ready to burst with just one more bite, and salty saliva filled her mouth. An unfamiliar tightening in the underside of her jaw sent pain rocketing down the side of her throat and the roof of her mouth. Her mind went blank and she bolted to the nearest bathroom, taking deep breaths and her mind chanting _mother would know, mother would know, mother would know. _

She slammed the lid against the toilet tank and stared into the water below, desperately trying to cling to whatever calm she had possessed a moment ago on the kitchen floor. The sting of her saliva reduced somewhat but the fear was still there and a thought bloomed within her. She could get rid of the evidence - all the evidence, even what was lying in her stomach - and her mother need never know of her indiscretion. They could all go on as if this night had never happened. The fear that resided in her gut receded and her breaths came much easier but it was the opposite of what she wanted. The nausea of her earlier panic had nearly left her and she was not feeling on the edge of vomiting quite as much as she had been.

The contents of her stomach settled into her body a little more and the burn in the back of her throat dulled somewhat. _No_, she thought, _it can't go away_! It was precisely the painful nausea that she needed in order for her plan to succeed. Did her body not understand that? Every second that went by was a second that her mother could be a step closer to the villa.

Blair squeezed her eyes shut - poised over the porcelain bowl - and focused solely on every morsel she had eaten that night, willing it to rise. A second went by and then another, yielding no results. Her eyes began to fill with tears, angry that she could not make her body do what she wanted. She was Blair Waldorf for crying out loud, how dare her own body refuse to bend to her will? Another moment went by before she became so angry that she jammed her forefinger and index down her mouth and tickled the back of her throat. Her hand was barely out of her mouth in time before an unstoppable tidal wave of Twinkies, chocolate, ice cream, fruit and other assorted carbohydrates poured into the white, pristine bowl.

She did it again and again until she was left dry heaving on the bathroom tile, shaking slightly and only barely conscious. She stayed like that, twitching and unsteady, on the floor for a full twenty minutes - she counted the seconds - before she collected herself, flushed the toilet and went to clean up whatever evidence was left. She brushed her teeth three times and then, exhausted after the efforts she had gone through that night, fell asleep.

When she awoke the next morning it was to the (surprisingly) pleasant smell of bacon. Her father was cooking and laughing at something Eleanor had said when Blair entered cautiously, waiting for some kind of explosion of disapproval. However, her mother barely said a word to her except to criticize her choice in headband - "_the blue looks better with those shoes_" - and Blair felt nothing but intense joy. Her parents knew and noticed nothing out of place.

Harold left them a month after they arrived back in New York and Blair sought control nearly everyday.


End file.
